The Pinot Story

There's a story about Pinot Noir at dinner up in the Mother Lode that I was waiting for Marlow to tell. But she got too busy in her last full week at home to write it down. I'm sure she could tell it better.

She's motivated, I'm not. Frankly, it's not a story I am anxious to tell, but as both Vicki and Marlow pointed out, if you're going to write a weekly personal column on the web, it isn't really fair to your readers--no matter how few they are--to leave out the good stuff.

So we're having dinner at the Columbia City Hotel in Columbia, California, in a state park in the heart of the Mother Lode in the Sierra Foothills of California. I decide to order a pinot noir wine. There are two on the menu that look good, a Dehlinger at $48 and another… I forget, let's call it a Husch… at $28. Both come from 1995. Vicki says "We'll never taste the difference, buy the less expensive one." I say, "These prices are based on winemaking style. Let's splurge on the better one."

She responded, "That's pointless." It was, at the point, that I made a mistake I haven't made since my mother won a doubled-up bet at the moment that Sandy Koufax took the mound against the Orioles in the 4th game of the 1964 World Series. I had the Dodgers, who were down three games to none. Mom was betting on the Orioles. Sandy would save the day, I said. "Double the bet?" my mother asked. "Sure," I said. The Orioles blasted Koufax off the mound and swept the series in four games. It was the last time I made a bet of any kind outside of Roulette and Blackjack in Vegas. No sports bets, no pools, no around the house bets.

I succumbed to Vicki's taunting at dinner, however, and bet her the cost of both wines that I could tell the expensive one from the less-expensive one (neither was what you would call cheap). The waiter cooperated, bringing two glasses for each of us, subtly marked. Although the bet did not require Vicki to guess, she played along anyway.

I held both up to the light. Both were perfectly crimson-hued, with not a trace of green around the edges. Both had marvelous pinot noses. I began to sweat a little. I tried the first one. Very simple and clear, a pleasant fruity aftertaste. I tried the second one. It tasted more complex. Well, says I, complexity means more work in the winemaking, right? More time in a better barrel?

Wrongo. But then you saw the punchline coming, didn't you? The waiter said, "The Dehlinger is on your right," Vicki whooped with glee, Marlow laughed hysterically, and if it had been a TV sitcom, we'd have just faded out there. Alas, it was real life, and I had to live with the story for the rest of the weekend, and now, a week later, I've been shamed into preserving it for posterity.

Such is the lot of the Dad.